Newton, Now Quite Old

Newton lives on the anticline
Watches the dulled horizon with spyglass reversed
How far it all is, he thinks 
And from this angle, oh how close the stars
Gravity is mostly imaginary 
Wallpaper birds are seldom still
Stealing faces and strawberries 
Chairs move in fixed points around the sun
If we idly sit, if vacant
They remain a kind of sundial
Waiting for circling shadows
To forego in their orbits
All the harmonies of the spheres
And in that expected (but unpredictable)
Falling apple shaped hiatus
To reach a less 
Substantial conclusion